Sucky Coffee and Pretty Students
by Prime-Minister-Holmes
Summary: John Watson is a professor at Saint Bartholomew's Secondary School. Sherlock Holmes is his student, blah blah blah, you get the idea. If you don't... read it.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note: I do not own BBC Sherlock no matter how many shooting stars I have wished upon. Sorry this chapter is so short, this fic is a bit of an experiment. Reviews will be cherished, suggestions are welcome, and don't worry about hurting my feelings. (I have been told about how thick-skinned I am) Enjoy! **

I took a small, tentative step into the room where I would be teaching classes for the rest of the foreseeable future. Clean desks were arranged into unforgiving rows, patiently awaiting the students that would soon use them. The chalkboard hung from its fixed position, nailed to the cinder block walls. It was my first year teaching at Saint Bartholomew's Secondary School. I had already established a formidable knowledge of where everything was, which teachers to watch out for, and why no one messed with the headmaster, Mycroft Holmes. He didn't seem particularly threatening, until you did something wrong. Then, according the other staff, he was like a raging dragon fighting every instinct to rip your head from your shoulders. After hearing the story of poor Professor Hooper, I vowed to keep my distance. My classes were scheduled to begin in half an hour, so I busied myself dusting and straightening things that weren't really in need of dusting or straightening. Nearly ten minutes later, I was hopelessly bored. I was shooting number two pencils into the Styrofoam ceiling panels to pass the time when the first few students began to trickle in before the bell. While I was somewhat embarrassed to be caught in such an unprofessional manner, it was truly a relief to have something to do that had a purpose.

All but one desk was filled when the bell finally rang, signaling that anyone else who arrived after that would be considered late.

"Professor Watson?" a tall girl with nut brown skin and fuzzy black hair tapped my shoulder, "Can we go ahead and start class? Freak probably won't be here for another five minutes."

"Sorry, what? Freak?" I furrowed my brow in confusion.

"Sherlock, Holmes. He probably won't get to class for another five minutes. The weirdo is likely to be holed up in the lab doing who knows what," the tall girl frowned, "I'm Sally Donovan."

"Charmed to meet you Ms. Donovan, please take your seat. Whenever this Holmes character shows up, I'll be sure to write him up." I assured her gesturing towards the desks. True to her word, five minutes into my lesson about the French Revolution, someone, presumably Holmes, strode through the door.

"Glad to see you could make it Mr. Holmes," I deadpanned, not looking up from the papers I was stacking.

"A pleasure to be here Professor. Nothing like the smell of sweat and hormones in the morning eh?" a surprisingly deep voice intoned from in front of my desk. Slightly taken aback by the dusky pitch I risked a quick glance up at the boy before me. Holmes was easily six feet tall. I would say that he loomed over me, were it not for his slender, wiry physique. Piercing gray-green eyes stared into mine, as if daring me to challenge him. A fringe of curly black hair stood in stark contrast from his alabaster complexion. Good god, that boy must have half the girls in this school throwing themselves at him; those cheekbones did nothing to offset the handsome features gracing the human race. A deep purple, _freaking silk_, shirt clung to his small frame. He definitely wasn't someone I'd suspect of skipping, or being late for class.

"I'm going to have to report this, you know," I chided, pulling a tardy slip from one of the many drawers in my desk.

"Oh, do what you must. I have become accustomed to the tedium of punishment," Holmes rumbled, sounding more like he was thirty than sixteen. I shot him a quizzical glance before handing him the slip. After he had taken a seat in the front row, I returned to the endlessly fascinating topic of Marie Antoinette.

"So, John, how has your first day been so far?" the Language Arts instructor, Janette Clancy cooed into my ear, leaning in closer than would be considered decent. It didn't take a genius to figure out she fancied me. It was an incredibly uncomfortable lunch period so far.

"Brilliant," I muttered into my spoonful of mashed potatoes.

"Oh, good. I heard you got Holmes." Even though I was a bit confused by her answer, I let it go, opting to stuff my face with dense food. An algebra teacher, Mike Stamford, also gave small and somewhat pitiful attempts at chatting. Bringing up the weather, or next week's staff meeting. Both Janette and Stamford were surprised by my lack of sociability, especially for a twenty-five year old. The rest of lunch passed in silence after Janette mentioned her mother's dementia. I found myself wishing I could get back to preaching about the importance of the guillotine. Unfortunately, I had to suffer through another ten minutes of dry conversation and awkward silences. Stamford faked an aching stomach and left for the nurse's office. Janette leaned her head onto her fist and regarded me softly.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked, blinking her eyes several times in quick succession, a sad attempt at seduction.

"Er, no," I mumbled, taking a sip of the dull brown substance that passed for coffee.

"Oh," Janette nodded her head, "Do you, maybe, want to go out to pub with me next week? I have some free time Wednesday afternoon."

"Alright, sounds cool," I flashed a faux grin before getting up to throw away my remaining food.

When I finally got home to the sad little flat I called home, I was completely exhausted. Nevertheless, I pulled out my laptop and started typing out lesson plans for the next week. This monotonous task only added to the startling weight pressing down on my shoulders, demanding attention. I sighed heavily, resigned to the fact that stating up any later would only increase my irritability. I closed the laptop, and trudged off to my startlingly un-homey bedroom for another restless night of sleep.


	2. Of Labs and Professors

**Authors Note: The reviews were lovely, and really made my day, feel free to leave more. I don't own anything affiliated with Sherlock. Thank you for reading.**

Some mornings energized me, with the twittering birds and blossoming flowers. Unfortunately, this was not one of those mornings. The sky was a dreary grey, and sulky thunderheads drifted about, occasionally spitting their condensed innards onto the unsuspecting public. Luckily, I brought my umbrella, the broken one, the one that doesn't work. I probably looked awfully daft, walking around in the unrelenting torrent of little droplets carrying around an _umbrella_. While I could care less about what others thought of me, I did care about my expensive school suit, which was currently becoming soaked through. St. Bartholomew's was only a few blocks away, but I didn't own a car, and my bike was still at my old flat, waiting to be moved. I smiled to myself at the image of my poor little bike propped up against the wall, rusting from misuse. When I reached the school, Janette was there, holding the door open for me.

"Hey, John. It's good to see you," she grinned foolishly, like a schoolgirl upon receiving a lollipop for behaving, "Happy second day of school."

"Yes, er, greeting Janette, hope you had a pleasant evening," I gave her a curt nod, and dashed down the hallway to my classroom. One of the windows had been cracked open, letting in a cool breeze leaving my arms pebbled with gooseflesh. I hurried over to shut it, only to trip on a piece of paper, wiping out on the floor. I checked to make sure I was alright before standing up. The paper had creases all on it, so I suspected that it had at one point been folded into an aeroplane. On it was an elaborate sketch of Sherlock with a large quantity of arrows sticking out of his chest with the word _queer_ written in bubble letters underneath. Anger bubbled in my stomach, before I squashed it, rationalizing that it was nothing, and shut the window.

"Actually, Professor Watson, the correct date would be a whole year later. Historians at the time did not factor in daylight savings time, leap year, or anything pertaining to such a matter. As a result of which, most textbooks have the date earlier than it should have been." Sherlock blurted, not even bothering to raise his hand for what felt like the millionth time in the past few days. Strangely though, I wasn't mad. The way the young boy's eyes lit up when he got to explain something no one else could break through the calm indifference was well worth the hassle. It also made me think of the creepy little drawing I had found a few days prior. When the bell rung, Holmes approached my desk.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" I tilted my head to better see the lanky teenager.

"Well, Professor, I was wondering if you could maybe talk Professor Hooper into letting me use the labs again. I heard you two were friends, and I haven't been able to get back in after I accidently blew up a western spotted tree frog," Holmes shifted on his feet, looking at me uneasily, as if waiting for a rebuke.

"I'll see what I can do Mr. Holmes, but should you get into trouble like that again, God only knows what I'll do to ya'." I smiled, uncapping my favorite pen to begin grading. A small grin flitted across the boy's cupid bow lips before he disappeared into the hall. A little fluttering sensation in my stomach colored my cheeks red, and I focused back onto the horribly tedious task of grading papers.

After what felt like only minutes there was a soft knocking at my door.

"Yeah? Come in," I rubbed my eyes, surprised that my planning period was nearly over. Janette sauntered in, holding a tray with two cups of steaming liquid on it.

"Here you go John, that is fresh coffee from the teachers' lounge, don't waste it," she set down one of the mugs and pushed it towards me. It took every bit of my willpower to not cringe away from the acrid scent.

"Ah, yeah, thanks, Janette, this is, er, lovely," I stammered, blowing on the warm mug before taking a sip. It burned my tongue and left a horrendously terrible taste in my mouth.

"I know, I love the school coffee," Janette smiled in my direction, adding an unnecessary wink that kind of killed it for me, "You are still taking me to the pub on Wednesday right?" I had come to dread that Wednesday, tomorrow I would be spending, or should I say _wasting,_ time with one of the dullest people I had ever had the misfortune to meet.

"Of course, yeah. How could I miss a date with someone so, um, cool," I winced as the words came out. Janette didn't seem to notice my struggle, for she laughed, patted my knee, and left the room. I grimaced as the last, lukewarm dregs of that vile sludge slid down my throat before placing the mug in the sink, and returning to work.

When the bell sounded the end of the day, I dashed out to find Professor Molly Hooper, a young, sweet faced woman whom I had befriended the previous Friday.

"Oh, hello John. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Molly looked up at me, temporarily abandoning her bus duties.

"Listen Molly, this is about Sherlock," her face darkened slightly, "He wants access to the labs again, he wanted me to ask if that was possible." Molly sighed, waving a few children away.

"Do you know what happened the last time Sherlock was allowed in the labs?" I shook my head, "He used one of the live rats, and blew it up. Organs everywhere, several pieces of equipment fried, and three other rats killed from the blast." I could practically feel myself pale. I had been expecting something bad, but this was much more than I could have ever thought of, which says something about my opinion of the boy. It really hadn't been all that horrible.

"Listen, Molly, he seems really bored. I can't have someone so gifted so unchallenged. It isn't fair to him," I reasoned, "Anything, I will do anything."

"Fine," she sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat, "On one condition," I gulped, preparing myself for whatever punishment I would receive, "You have to be in the lab with him at all times, no exceptions." I nodded, relieved that it hadn't been something like, 'grade all my work for a month', or 'buy me real coffee every day'.

"Got it, Molly Hooper, you are the best!" I assured her, grinning widely, and slightly doofus-like.

"I know, if he gets into any trouble in there, you are responsible for the paperwork," she rolled her eyes at my enthusiasm, "Now go on, I'm sure you have plenty to do." I tipped my invisible hat in her direction, and sped off down the sidewalk to my flat, hoping to beat any afternoon drizzles.


	3. The Student

**Authors Note: Wow, I have gotten a lot of views. Reviews would make me he happiest person in the world. I know I make a point of leaving them for everyone. Tell me how much you like it, and I may be motivated to write another chapter. Oh yeah, sorry about the confusing scene breaks, I am awful at formatting.**

…**.**

"Sher- I mean, Mr. Holmes!" I bounded towards my student as he swaggered through the doors of the school Wednesday morning.

"Ah, Professor, aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Sherlock sniffed, and began twisting the lock on a nearby locker.

"Professor Hooper has given you permission to use the labs again!" I grinned up at him, feeling a small lurch of pleasure upon seeing the joyful glimmer in his eyes.

"Really! That's brilliant!" then his mirthful expression ebbed, and he crinkled his nose suspiciously, "What's the catch?"

"I have to supervise when you are in there, at all times, no exceptions," I stated, desperately trying to make myself taller than Sherlock. He huffed, crossing his lanky arms over his chest.

"But-" he started.

"No buts, do you want access or not?"

"Very well, but I suggest you clear your schedule before school, after school, and during lunch period," Sherlock grabbed several books out of his locker, before closing it, and walking off at a brisk pace.

"I have a date tonight," I muttered uselessly to the retreating back, "Where are you going now?"

"I'll give you three guesses," Sherlock called over his shoulder. With a long-suffering sigh, I hurried after him.

…**.**

"John!" Janette grabbed my arm as I was walking down to the labs after school.

"Yeah?" I shifted uncomfortably; fully aware of what was coming next.

"What about our date tonight?" she stuck out her bottom lip, resembling a pouty five-year-old.

"I have to meet with a student first, I'll text you when I'm done. Should I pick you up at your place?" I offered, itching to get down to the labs.

"Okay, but I am fully expecting you to be there, or else!" Janette scowled, "Which student are you meeting with?"

"Er, Sherlock Holmes," the look that crossed my 'girlfriend's' face chilled me to the bone, "Janette, you okay?"

"John what are you doing with Sherlock?"

"He just wanted to get into the labs, some experiment or whatever," I furrowed my brow in confusion, "Brilliant kid."

"He is absolutely horrible! John, don't bother with him, let's go, please!" Janette pulled at my arm in a futile attempt to drag me along with her.

"I said I would stay, see you tonight," wrenching my arm from her vise-like grasp, I stomped down to the labs.

**...**

"Sorry to have kept you from such an, interesting, night," Sherlock muttered as I entered one of the labs, his wiry frame bent over several foaming beakers.

"How did you-"

"The same way I know you are an ex-army doctor that served in either Afghanistan or Iraq. You were wounded in battle, but the stress that came with a new experience reduced the limp. In a few weeks it will come back. You have an alcoholic sibling that is concerned about you, yet you refuse help, perhaps because they recently walked out on a lover," The young man straightened his jacket and glanced up at me, a flash of, something, in his gemstone eyes. _I could stare into those eyes for an etern- wait what!_ "Hello? Earth to professor!"

"Amazing! You could tell all of that from just looking at me!" I gaped at him, not even remotely aware of how I was going to begin eating flies.

"Well, that not what they usually say," Sherlock flashed a small smile; "Sometimes they don't say anything and just beat me up."

"People beat you up because you're smarter than them?"

"That and because they believe I am a queer," he sniffed somewhat pretentiously, "Horribly narrow-minded of them, actually." I fished the drawing of Sherlock out of my pocket.

"I found this on the floor the other day, thought you might want to, er…" I held out the paper, butterfly's tickling my stomach when his fingers grazed mine.

"Probably the work of Donovan, she is quite the artist," his voice sounded nonchalant, but I could see the tense wrinkles of worry around his mouth.

"Anyway, what have you got going here?" I gestured to the assortment of bubbling beakers. Sherlock smirked.

"Oh, I'm just studying the effects of hydrogen peroxide mixed with nitrogen oxide. Quite interesting stuff, you see when the two are mixed together the results are often so…" I smiled the entire way through his explanation, knowing it was worth all of the confusing words and equations just to see the student happy. Of course, I wanted all of my students to be happy, of course.

"Good god, Mr. Holmes, you are very nearly the smartest person I know!" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Who's the first?"

"No one, I just wanted to avoid you getting a big head," that earned me a crooked grin the made my inside lurch inappropriately.

"Hilarious, Professor, I assure you, and please call me Sherlock, Mr. Holmes makes me sound like my father," he spoke softly, pouring the contents of two beakers into an Erlenmeyer flask and watched the mixture froth madly.

"Okay, Sherlock."

…**.**

Janette was beside herself when I finally arrived into the driveway of her house. Her heeled shoe clacking obnoxiously against the concrete porch.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN JOHN WATSON!?" she screeched, "OH RIGHT! YOU WERE HANGING OUT WITH A STUDENT! MY BAD!"

"Janette, please calm down, I'm here now. Let's just get to the pub," that seemed to calm her down, if only by a small margin. We hopped into her car and drove out to the pub by St. Barts. I made a big deal out of holding the doors open for her, though my satirical cliché didn't have much of an effect. We sat down at a cozy booth and ordered our drinks, struggling to make ourselves heard over the din.

"John, do you like me?" Janette asked, glaring into the bottom of her glass.

"What kind of question is that? If I didn't like you, I wouldn't be here, would I?" I reasoned, regarding her strangely, wondering where this was going.

"It's just, you always give me this look, like you want to be somewhere else. I have no intention of forcing you through a relationship, John," I nodded in acknowledgement. As much as I wanted to just leave, I couldn't bring myself to leave her, even if she was really stinkin' annoying.

"Janette, you are wonderful, and there is no place I'd rather be," I took her hand, rubbing lazy circles across it with my thumb. She leaned over the table and kissed me, right on the mouth. There was a lot of nose-mashing and teeth-clacking, but Janette looked satisfied when she pulled away. I tried with all of my might to discretely wash the taste of chalk dust and sharpie ink from my mouth. With a strained smile, I gulped down the rest of my drink, hoping that becoming completely inebriated would make the night more bearable.


	4. Ouch Man

**Authors Note: Hello people, I know I have broken my updating pattern, stupid life kept getting in the way. I do not own Sherlock, however hardly I wish it to be so. Enjoy my lovelies!**

…**.**

As soon as I had entered my flat I had collapsed onto the floor in a heap of wrinkled clothing and near alcohol poisoning. Janette was quite possibly the dullest company I had ever had the misfortune to keep. Her anecdotes were boring and she was an awful kisser, despite how many times she had attempted to engage in snogging me (surely that much practice had _some _effect). It took an immense amount of effort and willpower to pull myself up off the surprisingly comfortable hardwood. I toed my loafers off sore feet and staggered to my bedroom.

…**.**

The next morning I woke to a dreadful hangover pounding behind my forehead. I rubbed my temples trying to massage the hammering away. Changing into a different set of clothes proved to be more difficult than I expected, as my hands were shaking with an agitating vigor. I gulped down an actually decent cup of coffee and some toast before slipping out of the door, into the soft morning light.

The walk to St. Bart's was painfully painful. Warbling birds and laughing children only added to my headache. The steady rhythm of my feet treading the concrete sidewalk kept me grounded when I reached the school. A thin arm snaked around my waist, squeezing my stomach like a boa constrictor.

"Oh, Janette! You scared me!" I yelped, holding her away from me.

"Good morning John," she smirked, laying her hand against my cheek.

"Stop it!" I plastered on a convincing smile, "The kids are gonna see!"

"Alright, I'll get us some coffee later," Janette patted me on the shoulder before slinking off to her classroom. Adjusting my bag, I strode down the hallway, but stopped when I noticed Sherlock talking to a group of thuggish boys. Sherlock was pressed up against the lockers, his chin held defiantly high regardless of the danger he was undoubtedly in. The largest boy, who I recognized as Sebastian Wilkes, punched him the stomach. I sprinted across the hall trying to reach him, shouting over the din of swarming students. I tripped, and fell, earning myself a mouthful of linty dust bunnies. The school nurse, Ella, I think, helped me to my feet.

"John, are you alright?" She knit her brow, hand clutching my forearm.

"Yeah, I need to go," I wrenched my arm from her grasp and dashed over to where I had seen the group. No one was there, just a small, sickening, splatter of blood on the floor.

…**.**

While it didn't surprise me that Sherlock didn't show up for first period, I was worried all the same. He did have a reputation for being late, though he was never absent. I had asked the class if they had seen him anywhere, but I only got a few derisive snorts and mutterings of 'he got what the little twat deserved', in response. What everyone else had against the poor boy was lost on me, as he seemed to be a reasonable student. After classes were over, I called his house to see if he had arrived.

"Sorry sweetie, no, he hasn't gotten home yet. Is there something wrong? Is he in trouble?" Mrs. Holmes fretted, her breathing over the phone quickening.

"No ma'am, I was just wondering," I swallowed, struggling to keep the nervous waver out of my voice.

"Alright, goodbye," she didn't sound too sure, but at least she wasn't going to keep asking. Deciding that he must still be on school grounds, I grabbed my jacket and sped out of the door.

…**.**

It took me half an hour before I finally found him, huddled underneath the sink in the teachers bathroom. His milky white skin was a mess of ugly bruises and welts, usually bright eyes glazed with exhaustion.

"Oh, god Sherlock!" I screeched, kneeling down to his level, "What happened?"

"What happens to every genius. I was beat up," he spat, scowling as much as his battered face would allow.

"Why? They wouldn't have just done this unprovoked," I gave him a stern glare, mentally cataloging his injuries.

"I may have partaken in a small amount of deducing," Sherlock admitted, staring down at his scuffed loafers.

"What?" I blinked, confused.

"It's when I look at someone and can tell him or her all about themselves. Like what I told you in the labs yesterday. Not everyone is particularly fond of it, as you can believe," he sighed, head rolling onto his thin shoulder, unruly curls bouncing dully in the dim light. Feeling a spark of pity, wedged my left arm under his to help him up.

"Can you stand?" I asked.

"Let's find out," I retracted my arm, so he didn't have anything to support him. After proving that he could, in fact, stand, I moved on to a more strenuous task: walking.

"Okay, do it slowly, one foot on front of the other," I whispered needlessly, awaiting the snide comment that would surely follow.

"I am perfectly aware of the elements of walking John, I mean, er, Professor," he stammered, ivory skin blushing beneath the black and blue. He placed one tentative foot out in front of him, but as soon as the slightest pressure his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto me. We both fell, I on my back, and he, somewhat awkwardly, on top.

"Ouch," I mumbled, as his bony chin collided with my clavicle. Sherlock was desperately trying to get up, but he only managed to succeed in kneeing my groin with his thigh.

"Oh, this is brilliant, absolutely brilliant," he muttered, using my shoulders to push himself off of me. I was too stunned to help him, only snapping out of my reverie when his arm slipped and he came crashed back down, his cheek resting against my neck for a second, before he rolled off.

"Jesus Sherlock," I grumbled, rubbing my collarbone, "You need to put some weight on." I meant the comment only in jest, but Sherlock avoided my gaze, flushing slightly, "Sorry, um, I didn't mean to um, offend you or anything."

"No, it's fine, I'm just, a bit tired," he faked a yawn and tried stood back up, thin arms trembling with the effort. I nodded, not wanting to press the matter. I wrapped my arm around his waist and helped him out of the bathroom, trying to ignore how he winced at my touch.

"Come on, I've got a feeling you aren't going to let me take you to the nurse, so we better get you home," I spoke through clenched teeth, even though Sherlock was stick thin, he was difficult to support.

"The buses left ages ago," Sherlock breathed, tripping over a cracked tile.

"Oh, well, I guess I can ask Molly is we can hitch a ride, there aren't any cabs nearby, are your parents' home?" I rambled, my mind blanking out, most assuredly _not_ because of Sherlock's thin, spidery fingers curled around the collar of my jumper. We staggered down the hallways, in search of Molly's classroom. Upon reaching her door, I rapped loudly.

"Yes? Come in!" her cheery voice called from inside. With some difficulty I managed to open it, stumbling slightly as I walked over the threshold, "Oh! Sherlock! Are you okay?"

"Who, me? Peachy, thanks." The student snapped, glaring at her.

"Sherlock! Be respectful!" I chastised, giving Molly an apologetic look, "Is it okay if you drop Sherlock of at his house?" I nodded in his direction.

"Um, well, okay," Molly took one last sip of coffee before grabbing her coat and following us out the door.

…**.**

I helped Sherlock into Molly's car before waving goodbye. Molly had seemed less than thrilled to have him sprawled across the back seat, but made no protests. As I walked home, my beeped.

_john, im not sure its working out- janette_

I stared down at my mobiles little screen. The small, pixelated letters took a few minutes to set in my mind.

_What do you mean? We've been on one date!- John_

_ yeah i know but ive met someone new- janette_

_ Okay, well, I'm happy for you, I guess.- John_

_ im glad you r. but never would have worked out anyway.- janette_

Her grammatical errors were actually my prime source of annoyance right now.

_Why do you say that?- John_

_ come on silly. we all know yr gay- janette_


	5. Why Me?

**Authors Note: Feel free to leave reviews, comments, suggestions, whatever tickles your fancy. In fact, they may motivate me to write faster and/or for frequently. Your choice. Finally, some Johnlock stuff this chapter. I have been waiting for this, in your face Sherlolly shippers! Thank you all for suffering though this with me. I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters I throw in.**

…**.**

_come on silly. we all know yr gay- janette_

I stared, a little dumbfounded, at my mobile's screen; reading the small black print over and over, trying to find some deeper meaning in the text. At first, I tried to convince myself it was a joke, and that I shouldn't get all worked up over on tiny text. 'We' couldn't be that many people right? Even if it was, then it still wouldn't matter. It's not as if I live in a totally conservative homophobic district that would turn and eat my heart out at the very mention of being gay. Oh, wait, I freaking do. Hello Mister, I'm screwed. In reality, I knew it wasn't a big deal, but panic still managed to seize all of my muscles, which resulted in a very long, very stiff, walk back home.

…**.**

"John, do know why I summoned you?" Headmaster Mycroft Holmes intoned, staring down at me from behind his immaculately polished desk, which was, no doubt, mahogany.

"Er, no sir," I murmured, and continued to stare down at my hands, more than slightly intimidated by the man's presence.

"I understand that you have my brother in your first period class?" Mycroft drawled, perfectly at ease with the situation. I blinked.

"Brother?"

"Yes, brother. You haven't figured it out yet? Sherlock is my sibling," he raised a condescending eyebrow, a look of amusement on his bleakly handsome face, "I realize that there isn't much of a family resemblance." The Headmaster appeared to enjoy my look of utter surprise.

"Bu-bu-brother?" I repeated, cursing myself for not noticing sooner, even if the only thing they shared was a name and a jacked up superiority complex.

"Yes John. Now, onto what I originally brought you here for," Mycroft laced his fingers together, "I have, _observed, _your rather friendly relationship with Sherlock, is there any reason I should be concerned?" I groaned inwardly.

"No, no, no, you have got the wrong idea sir," my heart had quickened it's pace as I recalled on more than one occasion when my relationship with the boy would be considered unprofessional, "Sherlock is my student, I would never sink to such a level."

"So you find my brother a distasteful person?"

"Oh, that's not what I meant!" I insisted, "He is a brilliant kid, stone-cold genius. I honestly don't know why everyone else hates him."

"Have you yet experienced his knack for, what, deducing?" Mycroft sipped his coffee, and I had to give him credit for not cringing.

"Um, yeah, he told me all about myself from one look," realization dawned on me, "Ohhhhhhh..."

"Exactly, most people he meets do not appreciate his gift, as they value their privacy above the feelings of others, no matter what Sherlock says, he does feel," Mycroft stared at me, his eyes similar to his brother's, but not nearly as captivating.

"Okaaaaay, can I, um, you know, go now?" I was gone before Mycroft even finished nodding his head.

…**.**

That day, after classes had ended, I congratulated myself on being able to avoid Janette all day as I walked down to the labs to meet Sherlock. I was steadfastly ignoring the butterflies of anticipation bubbling in my stomach, having no, reasonable, explanation.

"Ah, good afternoon Professor," Sherlock whispered, his baritone voice sending chills down my spine.

"Hello Sherlock, I trust that your day was satisfactory," I had not seen him in first period, being as he was in the nurses office, "Bruises not bothering you too much, I hope."

"No, but I have sustained much worse," he straightened, his eyes wide, as if he hadn't meant for that comment to slip out, "I mean, er..."

"What do you mean, 'much worse'? You were beaten to a pulp!" I took several more steps closer to him, my head only reaching his shoulder. Sherlock swallowed audibly.

"It's nothing Joh-Professor, don't get worked up over nothing," Sherlock's tone had assumed its indifferent, dissonant quality. I studied his battered face, the welts already beginning to fade.

"Sherlock!" I exclaimed, "If this is a continuing issue we need to stop it!" I put my hand on his arm, he shuddered, but did not pull away.

"Professor, just drop it, okay," he looked down at his equipment sadly, "What is done is done. Turning them in would only heighten my misery." There was a physical pain in my chest at seeing such a confident young man so crestfallen.

"I'm just worried about you okay! I can't stand to see you hurt like this!" Sherlock's head snapped up. The look in his eyes was wholly unsettling.

"You, what?"

"Well, I, uh, yeah. It isn't right. No one should be treated like this," he nodded at this, his shoulders slumped. I wondered what I had done wrong.

…**.**

Sherlock slammed the door to his room once he had gotten home. His heart hammering, _it's just from running, just from running, _he told himself. Squashing the memory of John's concerned demeanor, and ignoring the warm feeling it had given him.

"Sherlock darling, are you okay?" his mother called from the kitchen, worry lacing her tone. _Peachy mum, I only think I've only developed a crush on my history professor! _Sherlock dumped his books on the floor and collapsed into bed, pulling the duvet over his head. He had never dealt with something like this before, never. It was wrong, completely wrong. No, Sherlock did not have a crush on his history professor. He was completely enamored of him, or perhaps infatuation was a more accurate term. Whichever was appropriate, both words left Sherlock with the same fate: a one way ticket to Screwed Ville.

…**.**

I felt a little guilty after leaving the school that afternoon. Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet, and I couldn't help but feel that it was my fault. Not to mention the whole, 'Here Sherlock, this is my phone number, call or text if you need me- I mean, if you need my help.' As soon as I offered my number, all I could think about was Janette's gay comment. Lucky for me, Sherlock didn't seem to pick up on the awkwardness. _Bing_. Speaking of which. I pulled out my mobile and checked my texts.

_Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café, thirty minutes. Please come. SH_

My heart beat a little faster at the prospect of meeting Sherlock outside of school, on a planned occasion. Unfortunately, I didn't have much choice in the matter.

_I'll be there. JW_

I knew it was kind of stupid, altering how I signed my texts to match his. Honestly, why anyone signed their texts at all was confusing. Every phone that could text had caller ID, or texter ID, or whatever. I pulled on my jacket and headed out, knowing it would take at least twenty minutes to reach Speedy's by foot.

**Author's Note: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I am awful at cliffhangers. And I am really getting tired of this title. I am open to anyone telling me what they think it should be. **


	6. WHO

**Author's Note: Secret confessions with me: I have no idea where this story is going. Feel free to give me suggestions. I am still open to anyone who wants to help me think of a new title for this story. Whoever gives me the best idea will be acknowledged as way smarter than me. I do not own Sherlock.**

…**.**

I made it to Speedy's five minutes early, as the sidewalks were rather crowded. I stared up at the large red sign, apprehension making me question my decision to come here. Almost driving me to turn around and walk away, almost. The little shop was bustling with people, nearly all of the tables filled. I spotted a dark figure in a small booth in the back corner. The mess of black curls gave him away, and I strode over, making a conscious decision about when I breathed.

"Ah, Jo-Professor," Sherlock corrected, watching intently as I took a seat across from him.

"If you have that much trouble with it just call me John, you know, whenever we're not in class," I regretted the words as soon as I said them, but relaxed when Sherlock just nodded, and sipped his tea.

"Okay, John. I came to discuss something of importance to me, with you," he stated, kaleidoscope eyes, okay I said it, beautiful in the bright light.

"I'm all ears."

"Alright, I was wondering if you would, if it's okay, accompany me to the WHO meeting in Brussels this year," Sherlock stared down at his mug, "Mycroft is dragging me along with him, and I know that you are a history professor and all, but, you were a doctor, and you do know an impressive amount of medicinally related facts, so, could you possibly come with me, John?" For a moment I was silent, all words abandoning me as I stared at the boy in front of me.

"Um..." I managed, my cheeks burning.

"Oh, god," Sherlock's eyes widened, pink splotches marking his face, quite a lovely color if you ask me, "That, that wasn't subtle at all! Oh, this is so unprofessional, I've only known you a couple weeks, and you're my teacher!" I grinned at his discomfort, somewhat pleased to see him so out of character.

"When is the meeting?"

"Come again?"

"When. Is. The. Meeting." I pronunciated, my smirk only grew at the sight of his bewildered expression.

"Next week, sorry you're actually coming?" if possible, his eyes widened even more.

"I wouldn't miss this for the world." He flashed a genuine smile that gave me a warm feeling in my chest, and made my heart flutter. _Oh crap, _I thought, when I finally addressed the sweet feeling that had made its home in my torso, and identified it. _Oh crap indeed._

A crush.

…**.**

Sherlock practically skipped the entire way home, earning himself a decidedly odd look from Mycroft. He attempted to put on a more sullen expression, but the smile continued to creep its way back up his face.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" Mycroft inquired, raising a pencil thin eyebrow.

"Since when do you care, _Headmaster_?" try as he might, the younger Holmes couldn't keep the excited edge from his tone.

"Where have you been?"

"Good god, Mycroft, all of this caring is about to make my head explode. Don't even pretend like you don't know," Sherlock bounded up the stairs and collapsed onto his bed for the second time that day. But each time was met with a drastically different emotion.

…**.**

While it did seem to be perfectly okay for someone like me to attend a WHO meeting, but I was going with a student. Sure, he was a genius, and could probably handle himself better there than me, but, I was going to Brussels with Sherlock Holmes, my student, and his brother, Mycroft Holmes, my boss. I leaned my head against the wall of my flat, the rough surface itching at my scalp. Even though the meeting wasn't until next week, I went ahead and packed my bags in preparation. Extra fancy. Perhaps a labcoat wouldn't go amiss. I chuckled at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Most people would be elated to go on a trip with their cru- someone tolerable. I probably would be too, if it weren't for the whole, unprofessionalism thing. The feeling I got whenever he looked at me was nothing. I don't know what I was thinking before. _Silly John, you are not gay, or a pedophile. _And, unsurprisingly, the feeling that was most certainly nothing just wouldn't go away, no matter what I tried.

…**.**

Several teachers who were hanging out in the parking lot cast me odd glances as I loaded my duffel back into the trunk of the Holmes's car. Since Mycroft and the driver occupied the front seats, I was stuck in the back with Sherlock. He kept shooting me these strange, undecipherable glances. Slightly unnerved by his weird behavior I focused my gaze on the passing cars, wondering if any had the same destination as us, London Airport, that is.

"John, are you comfortable with this?" Sherlock whispered, leaning in and adopting a conspirational tone.

"Yeah of course, always wanted to do one of these things, all of my posh friends talked about it," I replied playfully.

"Talk_ed,_ why past tense?" he narrowed his eyes.

"Well, after I was deployed, contact was, made difficult," I explained, "Didn't really see any of them once being discharged."

"Ah, well, I, uh, am sorry?" his voice trailed off a little bit, thin features scrunching up a bit, as if pained. I couldn't help but laugh.

"Comfort really isn't your area, eh Sherlock?" he returned my grin, translucent eyes twinkling with suppressed mirth.

"No, I suppose not," he snorted, and chuckled along with me. It was a deep, melodious sound that made my pulse quicken no matter how many times I reminded it, _not gay!_ Sherlock put his phone away and set his hand down next to mine, ivory digits brushing lightly against my palm. His skin was so soft it really wasn't fair. I bit the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from outright grabbing his hand. However, Sherlock seemed bizarrely content with the subtle contact. Mycroft turned around in his seat, a look of mild concern crossing his features.

"We'll be arriving at London Airport in five minutes at the most," he furrowed his brow, glancing down at our hands, "Ah." And with that, he turned back around and resumed chatting with the driver. I noticed, with growing worry, a semi-truck barreling down the freeway at an alarming rate, and it seemed to have no intention of stopping.

"Um, Mycroft, what abo-" _CRASH._ My sentence was interrupted by the sound of crunching metal and shattered glass. The car to the right of us had been hit by the truck, slamming it into us. But the truck didn't seem to be finished yet. It pulled around, and raced towards the front of our car, like in a high-stakes game of chicken. The driver had turned us so that we were racing away, but all of the cars at each side prevented us from moving left or right. Just as we found a clearing in the lines of cars, and began to pull through it, the truck smashed into the trunk, which sent our car flying. Sherlock's eyes were squeezed shut, as if waiting for death to overtake him. Unclipping my seatbelt, in one final act of valor, I threw myself at him, undoing his seatbelt, and covered his lank form with my own in an attempt to save him.

"John!" was the last thing I heard before my world went black.

**Author's Note: Was this cliffhanger better? I think so at least. Goodbye my pretties, Chapter Seven should be up soon.**


	7. My Turn

**Authors Note: Did you like my 'cliffhanger'? Please review. It's difficult to improve if no one tells you what to improve upon. I do not own Sherlock.**

…**.**

_Beep Beep Beep Beep. _I groaned, every movement made my head hurt, even worse than my hangover.

"He's awake!" an all too familiar voice cried. I pealed my eyelids apart to view my student, who was currently hovering an inch from my face, gray-green eyes wide, Cupid's bow lips pulled back in a grin.

"Yep, it's nice to be conscious, don't you think?" I croaked, shifting into a sitting position, "How long have I been out?"

"Nearly an entire day," a nurse replied, filling a syringe with clear liquid, "Move your sleeve for me, this will pinch a bit." She stuck the needle in my arm, an overly determined look on her face as she pushed down the plunger.

"What happened, exactly?" I glanced over at Sherlock, who was now sitting in a chair by my bed, hands folded primly in his lap.

"Well as the semi was coming towards us, you flung yourself across the seat and shielded me from the blunt force trauma and consequent death that would soon follow," he stated, his face set into the indifferent mask he tended to wear, before adding, quieter, "You saved my life, John. I escaped with only a bruised rib, broken phalanges, and a rather nasty cut." I now noticed the bandages wrapped around his forehead and hand.

"What have I got?" I glanced down at myself.

"Broken left arm, broken right leg, hairline fracture in your skull, one broke rib, several bruised ribs, and a countless number of gashes and cuts," the nurse sighed, and gave me a look as if to say, 'how did you manage this?'. I scowled in her direction and returned to Sherlock.

"What about WHO?"

"We missed it," he found a sudden interest in the laces of his trainers.

"What? She said I've only been out for nearly a day!? The meeting was supposed to be Saturday!" I ranted, only earning myself a fit of coughing. The nurse patted my back, whispering about getting me some water, before leaving.

"Well, that how long you've been out, continuously. You have taken several, little five hour naps, over the course of four days," Sherlock explained, scooting his chair closer, and resting his head against the railing.

"You look bloody awful, when was the last time you slept?" I furrowed my brow with concern.

"Like, since we got here? Well, um..."

"Spit it out."

"I, uh, haven't," Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, as if waiting for a blow.

"In four days!?" I exclaimed, glaring at my student, "What have you been doing?"

"Sitting here, waiting for you to wake up. Did you know that you talk in your sleep?" he allowed himself a quick smirk, raking his gaze around the room, like he was seeing it or the first time.

"Oh," I could feel myself blushing, "What was I saying?" Sherlock's cheeks turned a fiery red to match mine.

"You were saying, er, 'not Sherlock', and 'not gay'," if possible, we both blushed even harder, breathless giggles escaping our mouths before our dignity returned, along with the nurse.

…**.**

By the time that the hospital let me leave it was fall break. Apparently the fracture in my skull was more serious than they thought. There were fragments of bone actually stuck _in my brain._ Needless to say I freaked out, and had some very meticulous and dangerous surgery done so I wouldn't die. Sherlock had missed nearly a month of school. Being a teacher that should have worried me, but he was so smart already, and I didn't really want him to leave. The poor kid had stayed right by my bedside nearly the entire time. Departing only to use the restroom or to get me something to eat. So now, I had used up all of my sick days, a few emergency days, and now had an entire week of no school. _I wonder, I never called in for a substitute. _

"Mycroft did." Sherlock stated, breaking the silence that had been ruling the hospital room for the last hour.

"What?" I pulled on my other sock.

"Mycroft called in your substitute," he rolled his eyes, as if his uncanny ability to read people was a common gift.

"Oh," I sighed, letting a small grin tug at the corners of my mouth, "You are really amazing, you know that right?" Sherlock blushed, soft pink coloring the ivory skin, the combination was lovely really. _NOT GAY!_ I reminded myself for what seemed to be the thousandth time. Dang heart just doesn't get the message.

"Yes, but, well, you are really the only person to ever acknowledge it, save for my parents," he looked me over. All of my bandages had been removed, save for the one that was still coiled around my forehead.

"Well then everyone else is just pretentious gits," I responded, tying the laces of my shoes and pulling on my jacket.

"They really can be," Sherlock answered somewhat wistfully, before he grabbed my hand and yanked me out the door and into the hallway.

"Agh! Where are we going? Where is Mycroft?" I managed before Sherlock pressed his index finger against my lips, warranting my heart to start hammering away in my sore ribcage.

"It's nearly eleven at night John, all of the patients are asleep. We are going down to Dover, it's the closest city, and our car is pretty much out of commission. Mycroft is off renting another one," he explained, all the while dragging me down the labyrinth of hallways, all of them reeking with the scent of disinfectant and disease (you know, if disease actually has a discernable smell).

"Why are we going to Dover at eleven o' clock at night then?" I chided, now realizing how Sherlock's slender fingers were still woven through mine.

"Because," he paused, obviously relishing the eager look that was assuredly on my face, "There's been a murder!"

…**.**

"You know Sherlock, I'm pretty sure that murders are not a good thing," I glanced up at him, a grin plastered across his handsome- _STILL NOT GAY!_- features.

"They are for me," he countered, swinging his arms, and by extension, mine, as his hand was _still_ laced with mine, "Without meaningful stimulation, my brain rots John. I need something to occupy it with, lest I go completely nutty." I risked a small smile, feeling the taller boy's eyes on me, and in that moment, it didn't matter that I was his teacher and he was my student. It didn't matter that his older brother was my boss. It didn't matter that I was nine years older that the person I was holding hands with. And, despite all of this, I still denied the obvious truth. Sherlock stopped walking, and turned towards me, tilting his head down a few inches, just as I straightened my back and stared into the crystalline, glazs eyes of Sherlock Holmes. _NOT GAY NOT GAY NOT GAY! _ I insisted, up until the moment that his soft lips slotted into mine, like two puzzle pieces. _NOT GAY NOT G- oh that is wonderful. _So I surrendered the battle with my yearning subconscious and leaned into the kiss.


	8. Murder and Love

**Author's Note: Finally, some Johnlock at last. All this 'platonic' stuff has been wearing me out. Please review. Special thanks to everyone that has reviewed! I do not own Sherlock. Enjoy.**

…**.**

When we broke apart, Sherlock's eyes were wide with shock and fear.

"Oh," he breathed, "Oh, god John I am so sorry, I don't, oh gaawwwd…" He took several steps away, tearing slightly at his hair.

"No, Sherlock-" I started.

"This was a huge mistake, a huge, gargantuan mistake, what was I thinking, I am your STUDENT!" Sherlock fretted, before I closed the space between us, and captured his lips with mine.

"But," he whispered against my mouth.

"Shhhh," I muttered back, running my fingers through his tangle of soft black curls. After a few seconds of Sherlock's stiff and unresponsive lips, he relaxed. His warm hands cupped the back of my neck and my waist.

"Oh, _Jawn_," the student murmured, nuzzling up under my chin. I smiled fondly at the childish behavior, rubbing circles into his back, "For the sake of social decency, I believe that we should keep this quiet."

"Yeah, but come on. We have a murder to investigate." I took his hand, and we practically skipped down the damp blacktop.

…**.**

Sherlock turned out to be a complete hit at the crime scene. By 'hit', I mean everyone immediately despised him and he couldn't care less. It took half an hour before we were allowed within a hundred foot radius of the caution tape.

"Sir, only trained officials are permitted on the crime scene, we do not let amateurs investigate!" a small, redheaded, woman protested as Sherlock attempted to talk his way towards the body. My, boyfriend(?) had a look of boredom on his face, as if he was completely ignoring every word that she was saying, until '_amateur'. _

"What did you just call me!?" he all but growled, voice dropping almost an octave, pale eyes flashing angrily. He lurched towards her, their noses almost touching, "I. Am. Not. An. Amateur."

"B-but…" she stammered, hands drawn up to her chest, "You c-can't pu-possibly be q-q-q-qualified t-to be here." Big mistake, miss.

"Oh, _I'm _not qualified! _I'm _not qualified," Sherlock turned and gave me a look of mock surprise, "Though, I suppose that you are. The person that only has her job because she is currently having an affair with the DI, though is also cheating on him with his wife by the looks of it."

"Sherlock," I warned, noticing the woman's shaking hands.

"Oh, John I'm not finished yet. You haven't paid the phone bill yet, you go bowling twice a week, your mother died several years ago, your father is an abusive drunk, the refrigerator light in your flat is out, the landlord secretly harbors feelings for you, and the milk in the fridge spoiled two days ago. Am I wrong?" he took a deep breath, his features once again falling into that indifferent mask.

"No, h-how could possi-possibly known!? Get away from me! Freak!" she scampered away, probably off to tattletale to her DI boyfriend. Sherlock swallowed, glancing down at the pavement, his hands clasped tightly at his back. Anyone else might say he was bored, but on the short time I had known him, it was blaringly obvious how the woman's words had hurt him. Any residual annoyance at him for insulting her slowly dissipated, and I hooked his arm through mine. Just so he would know I was there for him.

"You really are the first person I've ever met to truly appreciate my intellect," Sherlock whispered, leaning his head down onto my shoulder, hair grazing against my cheek.

"You really are the first person I've ever met to truly deserve my appreciation," I replied, slipping my arm around his thin shoulders. Sherlock only hummed contentedly in response. We stood like that for a few minutes, not really knowing what to do next, until I nudged him off me and pointed to an approaching man.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO MELINDA!" he demanded, stomping angrily towards us.

"I'm assuming that Melinda is the girl that I freaked out," Sherlock whispered to me, discreetly slipping his pinky finger through the belt loop on my jeans.

"It would seem so," I murmured back, shifting closer to him, somewhat put off by the, presumably, DI's rage.

"I merrily attempted to express my intellectual prowess so that I may be permitted to view the crime scene," Sherlock stated matter-o-factly.

"What!?" the DI shouted.

"May we please see the crime scene?" I interjected, not particularly wanting this encounter to end like the last one.

"Why in hell would I do that!?" he demanded, shooting Sherlock a look that could kill.

"Five minutes," the raven haired boy offered.

"Five minutes _please_," I corrected, giving him an affectionate nudge.

"Why would _I _give _you_ five minutes on my crime scene?" the DI asked incredulously. Sherlock and I both sighed, but for different reasons.

"Don't get him started," I muttered, preparing for the oncoming slew of deductions.

"Because, DI, uuum, Devons, I am smarter than your entire team combined. I know you are an alcoholic by your neck tie, I know you ride horses from your hands, I know you have two daughters from your loafers, and that you despise immigrants by your jacket," Sherlock pronunciated each word with more emphasis that necessary, though it did get the point through.

"Oh," Devons said meekly, the color draining from his face, "I, um, okay. You're smart, yeah? But I still can't just let you in."

"Fine, this is the phone number of Gavin Lestrade, he is a legitimate DI from Scotland Yard in London," Sherlock handed Devons a slip of paper, "Call him, and all the confirmation you need will be provided."

"It's _Greg_ Lestrade Sherlock," I told him, pleased by Devons's look of utter bewilderment.

"Whatever," he replied, nodding as the DI pulled out his phone and typed the number in. I absently wondered what we were going to do upon arriving back at Bart's. Obviously, Sherlock and I wouldn't be broadcasting that we were, well, whatever we were, partly to maintain our dignity and pride, partly to refrain from getting into legal battles or being fired. _What have I gotten myself into!?_ I panicked. _What do you do if you fall in love with your student? Who do you tell? Do you tell anyone? _

"John?" Sherlock waved his hand in front of my face.

"Oh, yes, sorry Sherlock," I turned back to Devons, having recently finished his call to Lestrade.

"DI Lestrade says you nose into his cases all the time, that it is terribly annoying, you are a complete and utter git, that I prevent anyone from talking to you, and that I should probably let you in, you have five minutes," he finished, looking the both of us over.

"Good, good. It seems that Lestrade comes in handy after all," Sherlock rubbed his hands together, grinning like a bloody maniac, "Come on John, we haven't a moment to spare. Mycroft will start worrying in an hour." He pulled the caution tape up for me to walk under, completely ignoring the looks from the rest of the team. The body itself was a gruesome sight to behold. The woman was laying on her back, features twisted up in some sort of demented smile, clad in only a child's pink parka. Each of her fingers and toes had been removed, along with her teeth. Thin rivulets of blood trickled out of her mouth, pooling beneath her head.

"Who are your prime suspects?" Sherlock queried, eyes raking over the dead woman.

"Er, the husband, the father, and the boyfriend she was cheating on her husband with," a rather frightened looking young man answered.

"No no no, you see the parka? It belonged to a child, most likely a female child. It's been used for several years, jam stains on the sides, so it did belong to a little girl for quite some time. This woman has obviously never had children," Sherlock said quickly, "The persecutor was a female. Oh! There are traces of initials on the tag, ESW. What is the victim's name?"

"Ellie Sage Wood," the same man replied, more confused now than frightened, "So, it was her jacket?"

"Of course not!" Sherlock exclaimed, "The child had the same initials, so they were related, a sister! Did Miss Wood have a sister?"

"Um," Devons flipped through a file, "Yeah, Christy Juniper Wood, divorced, one child, Esther Sally Wood. Oh my god, you solved this with two minutes to spare!"

"Please Devons, it isn't truly solved until we have a motive," the raven haired boy shook his head, "The sister, Christy Wood, adored her daughter based on the state of the coat, which is about three or four years old, but there are no holes or tears, just jam stains. Why would she kill her sister, strip her, and give her, her daughter's favorite parka?"

"Did the victim do anything to the child?" I asked, the thought made sense, I guess.

"YES JOHN! I could kiss you right know!" Sherlock threw out his arms and looked over at Devons, "Christy Wood's daughter, Esther Wood, was molested by Ellie Wood, so Christy Wood murdered Ellie Wood, and gave her Esther Wood's parka as a reminder." I couldn't help the affectionate grin that spread across my face at hearing Sherlock's deductions, he looked mighty pleased too.

"Wow," Devons whispered, glancing down at his watch, "Four minutes and fifty-five seconds."

"Now, I believe we are done here, come on John, Mycroft will worry," Sherlock winked, grabbing my arm.

"Alright, I'm coming, but it's still like the middle of the night, and I know you were lying about the whole car rental thing," I said once we had gotten a good distance away from the scene.

"Yeah, well, we had better get back to the hotel he was staying at."

"How many rooms have you got there?"

"One, but Mycroft won't be back tonight, he's off sorting out some government affair or whatever," he waved a dismissive hand. _One room_, I wasn't going to admit how giddy I felt at the idea.

"Hurry up John! I am absolutely knackered! Contrary to popular belief, I do actually need sleep," he admonished, yanking on my arm again.

"Hello, I did just get out of the hospital today! Or yesterday, how long have we been out? Anyway, the painkillers will be wearing off soon!" I reminded him.

"Please, like I would allow for you to suffer," Sherlock fixed me with a look of condensation, but his tone was soft, "I have a prescription filled out for you."

"Okay, okay, you really are amazing," I slipped my arm around his slender waist.

"I know John, but you're even greater," he smiled, leaning in closer to me as we walked towards the hotel, now trying to make the trip as long as possible.


	9. Dang

**Author's Note: Why hello, dear readers. Sorry it's been so long. I've been on vacation. I promise there will be some action-y stuff in the future, maybe even this chapter. I sincerely hope that all of you are doing well. And that you will review. I do not own Sherlock. Enjoy!**

…**.**

Once we had arrived at the hotel room, both Sherlock and I were giggling like school girls. He had said something mildly amusing earlier, but it had both of us in stitches.

"What are we laughing about again?" I asked between large gasps of air.

"I can't even remember!" Sherlock chuckled, and I loved that sound more than anything, the deep rumble, the dusky undertone.

"It must have been pretty good to get the great Sherlock Holmes, eh?" I threw my jacket over the back of a chair, watching as Sherlock did the same.

"Must have been," he agreed, dragging me over to the four poster bed in the center of the room.

"Where are our bags?" I sat down on the duvet beside him.

"Mycroft has them, we're leaving tomorrow morning for London," he explained, running a hand through his hair.

"Ah, and then there is an entire week of no school," I complained, leaning back across the bed.

"Nope. All of my experiments are at school, and you don't have your key. Even if you did I doubt you'd let a student borrow it," Sherlock sulked, laying down next to me.

"I'd let you borrow it, you aren't just a student to me now, and I haven't yet decided if that's a good or bad thing," I murmured.

"I have," was the brief answer before a pair of seductively soft lips crashed against mine. I recovered from surprise quickly, and responded fervently.

"Alright, it is entirely possible I only said that for effect," I grinned at him once we broke apart.

"Said what?" Sherlock inquired, his arm thrown protectively over my abdomen.

"That I hadn't decided whether we were a good or bad thing," I answered, positioning the both of us to where we were laying on the bed correctly.

"I know," Sherlock tugged the duvet over us, and turned the lamp off, washing all traces of light from the room. He laid his head on my chest, curls grazing my chin.

"Goodnight Sherlock," I whispered, pressing a kiss into his hair.

"Goodnight John."

…**.**

Three days after Mycroft had dropped me off at my flat, the sheer boredom was burning holes in my stomach. I had seen Sherlock only once, when I had met him at Speedy's for lunch yesterday. In four days I would have to get back to the tedium of instruction, but it beat lying on the couch, watching crap telly. I pulled out my laptop and managed to sort out some lesson plans before dozing off.

…**.**

"Professor Watson! You're back!" Sally Donovan exclaimed, looking a bit less than happy about the fact.

"Yeah, nurses finally let me go," I replied, pulling my favorite pen from my satchel.

"Nurses?"

"Oh, they didn't tell you?" I queried, the answer stated plainly in her look of confusion.

"No, what happened?"

"Car crash, it was pretty bad."

"Oh, jeez. That musta' sucked," Sally emphasized, though I knew she didn't really care. I simply nodded, sighing with relief when the bell rang. There would be about five minutes or so before Sherlock swaggered in, bigger than bloody life. It was going to be difficult, pretending to be indifferent towards him. Unfortunately, I had to, unless, of course, I wanted to be fired.

"Good morning class, it's good to be back," I smiled at my students, eliciting a few halfhearted grumblings of 'we missed you', or 'hope you are well'. I wrote down the name of the lesson on the board, not wanting to get too into my lecture while Sherlock was absent.

"Alright everyone, would someone inform of what you have been doing while I was gone. The sedatives kept me from writing the sub notes," I quipped, earning myself a few chuckles. One boy in the back, Moriarty, I think, raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Moriarty?" I pointed at him.

"We've really just been doing textbook stuff, it was-" The door to the classroom swung open, and Sherlock strided over to his desk.

"Well fancy seeing you here, Mr. Holmes. Please take your seat," I said smoothly, with just a hint of annoyance. Moriarty gave an all knowing smirk, and looked down at his book, "As you were saying?"

"Oh, nothing, you seem to be rather preoccupied," Moriarty's grin only widened when he saw my reaction. _Surely he didn't know?_

…**..**

I was still feeling antsy when I was walking down to the labs to meet Sherlock after classes. The Moriarty kid gave me the heebie-jeebies. I found the very person I was looking for hunched over several petri dishes, examining them intensely. The door creaked as I opened it, shattering the placid silence of the lab, and alerting him to my presence.

"Oh, hello John," Sherlock's expression softened when he saw me.

"Hello Sherlock," I replied, offering a fond smile, placing my bags on the countertop next to him, "I trust you had a good day?"

"Brilliant," he answered, turning back to his experiment.

"Well that's nice, what are you working on now?"

"The difference in mold that forms on human versus animal flesh," Sherlock said distractedly.

"Where did you get human- oh Sherlock!" I exclaimed, pulling up the sleeves on his shirt and found several angry red marks along the milky skin.

"I am perfectly fine John, no need to fret. I made sure to sterilize the knife," he murmured the last bit into my jacket, as I had pulled his wiry frame into a hug.

"Listen, love," I sighed into the crook of his neck, "Be careful, I understand that no one really watches you with these things, but just, oh Sherlock, be careful, please be careful."

"I will John, don't worry," he whispered, pulling back slightly to look me in the eye, "For you. Only for you will I regulate myself."

"I wish you would do it for yourself," I allowed myself a small grin, "But that would be too much ask, wouldn't it?" My answer was a chaste kiss, short and sweet, leaving me hungry for more. I put my hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down into a deeper, more intense, embrace. His mouth moved quickly against mine as I backed him into a wall. My hands danced across his hips, fluttering along his waistline. Sherlock angled his head down towards mine and slipped his fingers into the belt loops on my jeans. We stood there, snogging in broad daylight, so caught up in each other that neither of us heard the creak of the door opening…

**BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!**


	10. Caught in the Act

**Author's Note: I am convinced that my abilities as a writer are slowly deteriorating. Well. Please review and I do not own Sherlock.**

…**..**

"John!?" a panicked voice screeched from behind us.

"What!" I jerked away from Sherlock, who was looking equally surprised. We turned around, and beheld none other than, Janette Clancy. Brilliant.

"What are you doing?! Holmes!? You ditched me for Holmes!?" she yelled.

"Well, in fact you ditched him. Over text. Because you thought he was gay," Sherlock intoned, with no evidence of his previous astonishment.

"Because he is gay if you haven't cared to notice! You were snogging him! You're nine _freaking _years older than him John!" Janette continued, clutching the side of her face with her hands, "A pedophile and you're gay! Why you're the whole _freaking _package!"

"Janette, please calm down-" I started, trying to defuse the situation.

"CALM DOWN! You want me to _CALM FREAKING DOWN!_ YOU ARE DATING A _FREAKING STUDENT!_" she shifted her bags to one arm and ran from the room, slamming the door behind her.

"We are _so so_ screwed," Sherlock summed up.

"No Sherlock, I'm screwed, I'm the one who is going to be fired, I'm the one who is probably going to get this put on my permanent record, I'm the one that fell in love with my student," I fretted, sliding down the wall until I was sitting on the floor.

"I'm the one that fell in love with my teacher," he said slowly, joining me on the cracked linoleum, "What are we going to do about that?" Instead of replying I just leaned my head against his shoulder, inhaling the comforting scent of laundry detergent and mint gum.

…**..**

"Good afternoon Sherlock, did you have a good day?" Mycroft asked from his velvet armchair. Little wisps of amber hair were just visible from the top of his newspaper.

"Oh, don't play with me. You know what happened," Sherlock snapped, collapsing onto the couch across from him.

"No, actually I don't know what happened, Janette Clancy just came into my office sputtering on about 'Sherlock! It was Sherlock!', not much could be drawn from that," the headmaster folded his newspaper into his lap, and peered down at the younger Holmes.

"The labs," was the only reply, muffled slightly from where Sherlock had turned over onto his stomach.

"Sherlock, I can request that the security camera footage be withdrawn and reviewed," Mycroft threatened, crossing his legs. It struck Sherlock how familiar this situation was to a therapist's office.

"In the labs after school, you know how John is required to supervise me when I'm down there? Well anyway, he was just kind of standing there, and-"

"Sherlock please don't tell me you killed anyone," interjected Mycroft.

"What! No! That's ridiculous. I was just looking at my skin slides and John found out that the human skin samples were mine, he saw the scars and kind of, hugged me," Sherlock lifted his face out of the armrest and regarded his brother with something close to disdain.

"He, hugged you?" Mycroft's eyes were wide, and he leaned forward in his chair.

"Wait you didn't know- oh well. In Dover John and I expressed a mutual romantic interest in each other," Sherlock grinned with triumph at his brother's shocked expression, "I thought you better Mikey. As I was saying, John hugged me and then he sort of, well, kissed me, and I kissed him back, and then Janette walked in and worked herself into quite a tizzy over it."

"You do realize what I will have to do now, don't you?" Mycroft looked a bit sad now, as if bringing bad, news, which he was.

"Yeah, but, please don't! This job is all he has!" Sherlock pleaded, sitting on the couch properly now.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but since someone knows about the two of you know, the reputation of this school could be destroyed. I have no other choice."

"If you sack John I will no longer attend school Mycroft, and that is final," Sherlock pouted, then a bright expression painted his features, "What if you paid John to be my personal tutor!"

"He teaches History Sherlock, he can't very well instruct you on everything else now, can he?"

"Please, as if that obstacle would not be easily overcome, he has a degree to teach any science classes and Maths. The only issue would be Language Arts. And I already know every last bit of content needed for that class," Sherlock argued, already assured of his victory.

"Very well brother mine, I will give him the news in the morning."

…**..**

There was a leaden feeling coiled in my stomach as I approached the door to Mycroft's office. There really was only one way this meeting could go, and it was not a very pleasant path. Janette had obviously spilled the beans, as all of the other teachers were deliberately avoiding my gaze. Fortunately, none of the students had picked up on it, but that state of ignorance was bound to break after today.

"You may enter," Mycroft called from inside his office. I nervously pushed the door open, and found that Sherlock was sitting in on of the chairs facing his desk.

"Hello John," my lover managed weakly.

"Hello Sherlock," I croaked, lowering myself into the seat beside him.

"I know you are both aware of why I summoned you," Mycroft waited for a response, we both nodded, "It seems that a manner of your twos' relationship has been discovered," we nodded again, "This has lead me to a conclusion, now, John, as you probably have guessed, your services are no longer required at St. Bartholomew's any longer."

"Yes sir," I mumbled numbly.

"However, yesterday Sherlock has proposed a plan for you, if, brother mine, you would care to explain.

"With pleasure, brother dear," Sherlock twisted in his seat to face me, "I stated yesterday that if Mycroft sacked you I would quit coming to school, and that you still need money, and that I still need to be taught, so, you happen to be qualified in basically every subject save for Language Arts, in which my knowledge is truly masterful."

"Okay," I encouraged cautiously.

"Mycroft agreed to continue paying you, if you would be so kind as to become my tutor."

**My computer's dying. Goodbye for now.**


	11. THE FINAL CHAPTER

**Author's Note: This is completely totally absolutely the last chapter; it will be extra-long though! I do not own Sherlock**

…**..**

"Um," I stared at the Holmes brothers for an entire minute, before I found myself capable of giving a proper response, "That would be lovely, actually, it would be brilliant."

"Really?" the grin that split Sherlock's face was quite possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, not to get all sappy or anything.

"Really?" Mycroft repeated, a look of quiet pity playing across his features.

"Yes, really," I rolled my eyes. Mycroft nodded and pulled out a sheet of paper and slid it across the surface of his desk.

"I'll need you to sign here," he pointed at the blank space at the very end of the sheet.

"What's this for?" I asked, straining my eyes to read to small print.

"You will have legal guardianship of Sherlock, as our mother, father, and myself are moving elsewhere after this term," Mycroft gave me a significant look, "You will be in complete charge of him." _What!? I agree to tutor him and now I am his guardian? I can't do this! I need some air... _But I just nodded my head and signed the contract.

…..

"I'll come by your flat every day at one and remain until six, I'll bring my books and pencils, I'll bring my own sack dinner, I'll-"

"Put a sock in it Sherlock, you don't even know where I live!" the raven haired boy puffed out his bottom lip and crossed his arms petulantly.

"Then why don't you tell me?"

"9200 Maple Lane, now will you leave me alone?"

"Dunno', do you want me to?" he gave me a coy smile.

"Come off it," I shoved his shoulder playfully, "We're still on school grounds, and I need to pack up my stuff."

"I'll help you!" Sherlock pleaded, pale eyes wide with want.

"Please, Janette has already accidently on purpose let the news of why I was fired slip, and school is still in session, I don't want you to be made fun of," I explained.

"But John! I've been made fun of my whole life! I think I can handle a little scandal."

"Fine! Fine! Come on let's go."

…..

It was fairly easy for me to disappear into the crown of rushing students, as I am short, unfairly so. I only drew a few scathing and confused glances, but Sherlock, the awful ridicule he faced, it turned my stomach. The least of what he received was the cruel whispering of 'bleeding rainbows dirtying up our school' into his ear. All the while he walked, stone faced down the hallways. I could see him visibly relax once we entered my old room.

"You okay?" I rubbed his arm protectively.

"Brilliant actually," he gave a small, but genuine smile. I just nodded and closed the classroom door.

…..

We spent the next two hours packing all of my stuff into cardboard boxes. And then another two just waiting in the classroom for classes to end, just so we wouldn't have to deal with any more students. As the last bell of the day rang, Sherlock and I piled cardboard boxes into each other's arms.

"See how long this would have taken if I hadn't been here?" Sherlock goaded, landing a quick peck on my cheek.

"I admit, you did help a bit."

"A bit!?" he shot me a look of faux offense; "I boxed all of your textbooks and filed your papers and organized your writing utensils! Be grateful!"

"Alright, alright, you were invaluable in helping me to pack up my room, couldn't have done it without you," I winked at him, "Your _majesty_."

"Much better, _peasant_," he tutted affectionately. We walked out the front door and loaded the boxes into Mycroft's car. The driver was tapping the wheel almost as furtively as he was tapping the 'Flappy Bird' app on his phone.

"Have you been sitting here the entire time we were in there?" Sherlock frowned at the driver.

"Er, yes," he replied distractedly, muttering a quiet 'damn' after his avatar ran into a green pole. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in my direction and got into the car.

…..

The car never made it the John's dingy little flat. It never made it anywhere. Probably not because it crashed, probably because the driver was not Mycroft's.

…..

The room was dark. There was a strange, rough, fabric pressed against my mouth. Uncomfortably thick rope was tied around my wrists, chafing against my skin.

"Yer awack!" there was a muffled voice from beside me. There was a shuffling of clothing and I could feel skin against my hand.

"Sh'lock?" I muttered, feeling the soft brush of curls on my fingers.

"Mmhmm, you 'kay?"

"B'leeve so- ackle 'urts," I spoke into the gag.

"Wha' hap'n?" Sherlock asked, shifting around so that his back was pressed into my shoulder.

"Dunno'."

There was a creaking noise, and a small sliver of light illuminated the room. We both shut up.

"Hello! How are you doing today friends? Well I hope!" a drawling, sing-song voice accompanied the sound of footsteps approaching us.

"Mriahty!?" Sherlock exclaimed as well as he could through the gag. _Who's Mriahty? Oh- Moriarty- the kid who sat in the back row?_

"Oh dear, I'm afraid I've been found out! I shall never succeed now!" Moriarty whined satirically, flipping some sort of switch and lighting the room. Standing directly in front of the doorway was the seventeen year old boy from my history class. He stepped forward and pulled down our gags.

"What are you doing?" I stared up at the dark haired boy.

"Being bored! Last week I kidnapped my aunt, before that my father, then my cousins, then the grocery store clerk that short-changed me, don't worry, I released them all after the ransom was paid, sometimes," he grinned, "Otherwise it would be _so _cliché."

"So you might release us?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. Moriarty laughed.

"Puh-leeze Shirly my sweet," he ran a finger along his jaw, "I released them because they were boring, you, on the other hand, not so much. Can't say the same for your hubby though- it would be interesting to see what effect he would have on you. But I know that I don't let him go, you'll be endlessly dull and quiet."

"So you're releasing me but not him?" I pursed my lips angrily, but knew better than to lash out.

"Pretty much Johnny boy."

"Well then do it already!" Sherlock cried in frustration.

"I can't have him knowing where he is! Else he could go crying to Lestrade," Moriarty pulled out a grimy strip of fabric and tied it around my eyes.

"See you later John," Sherlock's voice conveyed. And I could feel hands on my shoulders pushing me towards some unseen destination.

…..

I had been shoved into a car and driven down a long stretch of road. Try as I might to do something Sherlock-ian like memorize all the turns, or, count the length of the drive, I actually ended up dozing in the back seat of a psychopath's car. It had been an interesting day. Soon enough I was jerked from slumber by a rough hand pulling me out of the car. The blindfold was yanked from around my eyes, and by the time that the blinding lights had faded, all traces of my kidnappers were gone, and I was left, alone, in front of the door to my flat.

…..

There was absolutely nothing I could do- and that thought nagged at the back of my head to point where I was sure that utter insanity was imminent. It had been three days since Sherlock and I were taken, and I had neither heard, nor seen, anything that could be tied to him. Yesterday and the day before were spent tearing through the streets and searching every abandoned building I set my eyes on, but to no avail. I didn't dare go to the police, I had no information except who it was, and I doubted anyone would believe me. _What a lovely little situation you have for yourself here Johnny boy! _Moriarty's voice sang in my head. With an exasperated sigh, I went to go make myself some tea.

As I dropped the teabag in, my phone rang.

"Hello? This is John Watson speaking."

"John," it was Mycroft's voice, but it was tenser, more strained than I remembered it, "They've found him."

…..

"Where is he!?" I all but shouted at the elder Holmes once I had arrived at the scene.

"Ambulance, his condition is critical, but they suspect that he'll be fine," Mycroft breathed, taking a long drag from his cigarette. There were deep purple bags under his eyes, but, otherwise he seemed fine.

"Okay, okay, good, I'll be seeing him then," I jogged over to the ambulance, but was stopped by a man in a large reflective vest.

"Sorry sir, but you'll have to wait until visiting hours once he is transported to the hospital," the man said, holding up his gloved hands in a placating gesture.

"I'm his legal guardian and I need to see him."

"I'm sorry. But-"

"_Please!_" I begged, craning my neck to try and get a glance at Sherlock.

"Alright, two minutes," the man mumbled irritably. Dashing over to the stretcher, I could feel my stomach drop and shatter against the blacktop. Sherlock was unconscious, a thin white sheet pulled up to his navel. His skin was an ashen grey, marred with a myriad of welts, bruises, boils, and gashes. The formerly dark hair was died in several places, several streaks of bubblegum pink poked out from his hairline. The poor boy's lips were crudely slathered with blood-red lip stick, his eyes shadowed with purple, and his cheeks rosy with blush. It was probably the most disturbing thing I had ever seen. Bile burned in the back of my throat, and I rushed off to retch into the nearest bin.

…..

"So, you're here to see, _Holmes, Sherlock_?" the nurse raised an eyebrow, "Says here you're his legal guardian, but you look a bit young." I forced myself to laugh along with her, the apprehension that came with seeing him had vanished the moment I set foot in the hospital.

"Yes ma'am," I nodded, signing the sheet that had been offered to me at the beginning of the meeting.

"Room 221."

I hesitated, before knocking quietly against the oak surface of the door to room 221.

"Come in," a voice croaked from beyond the door. I turned the polished brass handle and stepped quietly into the room, "Hello John." The entity that was once Sherlock spoke.

"Oh, god what did he do to you!?" I rushed to his bedside, surveying the injuries with greater detail. After the dirt had been washed away several more cuts and lacerations were made visible, even just along the side of his neck and face.

"It's really no big issue John, I'm fine really-"

"No you're not fine! If you were fine you wouldn't be in a freaking _hospital!_"' I whisper shouted, my fists clenching in the bed sheets.

"Please John, it's not important what happened to me," Sherlock sighed, "It matters little to the present."

"Now I know something's wrong, you get your kicks out of peoples past." He gave a sad smile at this, turning his head to face the wall.

"You know, I've really come to hate hospitals, I've been in one three times since I met you," he whispered.

"Three?"

"Mummy took me to one when Wilkes beat me up, not the ER or anything, and I stayed in one when you were injured in the crash, and now, this. I'm starting think you are the danger factor here."

"Well, it most certainly cannot be _you _of course. With all of your safety precautions and level-headedness."

"Shut up!" We both giggled for a while, before the nurse came back carrying his Sherlock's breakfast.

"Eat up," she commanded, shooting me an unhappy glance, "He should really be resting you know."

"And miss out on this lovely pig slop! You're joking," Sherlock said with sadistic cheer. I gave the nurse my most winning smile, before she gave up and left us alone.

"You are a right pain in the arse, you know that right?"

"It's my absolute best quality," the teenager grinned, and pressed a kiss to my cheek.

"Yeah, I know."

**Ooh, cheesy endings are my favorite! **


End file.
